Chapter 4 - Morning Shifts and Stiff Spines
The pale gray light of a damp dawn did little to warm the vast stone corridors of the Castello estate. My muscles felt like dry timber, stiff and aching from a night spent staring at the ceiling of the small staff dormitory, listening for the phantom buzz of a disconnected mobile phone. Every shift of the old mattress brought a fresh throb to my knuckles, where the skin had split over the joints and crusted over in the night. I wrapped them tightly in clean gauze before pulling on the black cotton bodice of my uniform, smoothing the crisp white lace-trimmed apron over my skirt with hands that still trembled whenever the floorboards creaked.
Down in the main service foyer, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of bitter chicory coffee and lemon-scented floor wax. Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper, stood beside the mahogany service desk with a clipboard pressed against her immaculate gray blouse, her sharp eyes scanning the assembled ranks of maids, footmen, and linen stewards. Her bun was pulled so tight it seemed to lift the corners of her thin mouth into a permanent line of severe expectation.
"Quiet, everyone. Listen closely," Mrs. Gable announced, her voice carrying easily across the polished tiles without needing to rise above a conversational drone. "Today is the preliminary prep for the evening foundation gala hosted by Mr. Castello. Dignitaries, local politicians, and board members from the civic trust will begin arriving by twilight. We do not have room for dropped silver, smeared glass, or dawdling in the halls. Every surface must reflect candlelight without a smudge. If a guest asks a question outside your duties, you bow your head, direct them to a floor manager, and keep moving. Is that understood?"
A low murmur of assent rippled through the staff. My stomach gave a cold, sharp twist. A gala meant hundreds of strangers crowding these halls, flashing cameras at the entrance, and armed security guards checking IDs at every gate. It meant Leo was still hidden in a safehouse across town, guarded by men whose loyalties I couldn't guess, while I carried silver trays past the very people who might hold his fate in their ledger books.
"Sadi," Mrs. Gable snapped, her gaze locking onto me with icy precision. "You look pale. Did you sleep standing up?"
"No, Mrs. Gable. I'm awake," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the lapel of her uniform to avoid any sign of defiance.
"Good. We need hands on the main hall. Take the polishing kit and the flannel rags. The wood-paneled double doors leading into the east wing are dull from yesterday's rain humidity. I want them gleaming so hard a man can shave in the reflection before noon."
Without waiting for an answer, she turned her clipboard toward the footmen and began assigning table placements for the grand ballroom. I picked up my heavy brass caddy and walked down the long corridor toward the very spot where, less than twelve hours ago, my phone had been ripped from my bleeding hand.
The hallway was quiet now, save for the rhythmic scrape of my kneeling pad against the polished floor. The morning sun slanted through the tall arched windows, casting long, pale bars across the wood-paneled double doors. I knelt on the cold tile, squeezing lemon oil onto a flannel rag and rubbing it deep into the carved mahogany grain. The scent was sharp and clean, cutting through the lingering metallic tang of fear that still clung to my throat.
As I worked the cloth in small, circular motions, the heavy security boots echoed against the stone behind me. I didn't need to look up to know who it was. The steady, heavy tread belonged to Dante.
He walked down the center of the hall with his black button-down shirt unbuttoned at the throat, the dark ink of his neck and arm tattoos stark against his pale skin. He wasn't flanked by his usual detail this morning; he moved with the solitary, predatory ease of a man who owned every brick, wire, and shadow on the property.
I paused, holding the rag against the wood, my breath catching in my chest. I waited for him to pass, keeping my head bowed as protocol dictated for any servant caught in his direct line of sight.
Dante didn't walk past. His footsteps slowed, then stopped entirely just a few paces away. The faint scent of expensive cedarwood and black coffee washed over me.
"The grain on the left panel is dry," Dante said, his voice low, gravelly, and entirely devoid of the cold authority he used in boardrooms. It was just a statement, neither a threat nor a compliment.
I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes trained on the dark wood inches from my knees. "I'll use more oil, sir."
"Do that," he replied.
I heard the slight shift of his boots as he turned his head, his gaze resting heavily on the side of my face, taking in the pale skin and the white gauze wrapped around my knuckles. For a second, the hallway seemed to hold its breath, the ambient hum of the estate's ventilation system fading into absolute silence.
"Mrs. Gable has you on hall detail today?" he asked, his tone dropping half an octave, carrying an undercurrent that wasn't meant for the staff register.
"Yes, Mr. Castello. Assigned to the entrance and east wing prep for the foundation guests."
"Keep your head down tonight," Dante said, his voice cutting through the quiet with a sharp, instructional finality. "And keep away from the security perimeter near the west gate. My men are clearing the board today. You don't need to see how the pieces fall."
May you like
Before I could form a response, the heavy slide of his shoe against the tile resumed. I stayed frozen on my knees, watching his dark shadow glide past the polished double doors and disappear around the corner toward the private study. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the flannel rag into the brass caddy, the metallic clatter echoing loudly down the empty, gleaming hall.
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